


Sherlock and the Doctor

by Zella_Celan



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Gen, Light Angst, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 04:18:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13263537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zella_Celan/pseuds/Zella_Celan
Summary: The Eleventh Doctor is thrilled to run into Sherlock Holmes, but what is the famous detective doing in the 21st century? (Cross posted here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12786913/1/Sherlock-and-the-Doctor)





	Sherlock and the Doctor

**1831**

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Harold Saxon is here to see you.”

“Never heard of him. Tell him I’m busy.”

“He said to tell you he’s here on business involving a man named Sherlock Holmes.”

At that, James Moriarty folded his evening newspaper and said, “Oh, very well, show him in.”

The man who stepped into the sitting room a moment later wore a suit cut in a newfangled fashion Moriarty had never seen before. “Tell me why you’re here, Mr. Saxon.”

“Didn’t your butler give you my message?” the blond man asked, looking surprised, pointing over his shoulder.

“He told me what you said. I want to know what you meant. Is the name Sherlock Holmes supposed to mean something to me?”

“Oh, I think those are the two most important words in your life.” Hands deep in his pockets, Saxon paced around the room. “I have enemies, too, you know, Jim. One in particular, and his name haunts my dreams. I have a business proposition.” Saxon spun to face Moriarty. “You want to be rid of Sherlock Holmes; I want to be rid of the Doctor. We’re both willing to go to great lengths to make it happen. I thought we could, perhaps, kill two birds with one stone?”

 

**2011**

Sherlock Holmes was bored, and he was taking out it on his violin. John Watson sat with his back to the noise, reading the paper and trying to ignore his flatmate’s foul mood. But when the violin let out a wheezing screech, the likes of which he’d never heard before, he slapped the paper down and turned with an exasperated, “Sherlock!” His protest died half-spoken when he saw that Sherlock had let the bow drop, yet the noise continued.

In the corner between the door and the couch, a blue box shimmered into view. When it stilled, and so did the noise. Immediately, Sherlock began to examine it, letting the violin fall unheeded on the coffee table. He leaned close to the box, tapping it and muttering to himself, while John stared open-mouthed.

As Sherlock studied the door of the box, it popped open, and he found himself face to face with a tall man who had a large chin and dark hair that flopped to the side of his face. “Hello!” exclaimed the stranger, bobbing his head as he looked Sherlock over curiously. “Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Sherlock Holmes! The famous detective?” The stranger pushed his way into the room, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pumping it vigorously. “What do you know! This is such an honor! I’ve always wanted to meet you! Although…” he paused, looked around the flat, and sniffed the air, “the 21st century isn’t exactly where I expected to do it.” He peered at Sherlock, their noses almost touching. “I might have to have a talk with Sir Arthur.”

Sherlock wrenched his hand away and leaned forward until the stranger pulled back. “Who are you?” he asked, unconsciously tilting his chin in a way that intimidated most people. The stranger remained unperturbed.

“I’m the Doctor, and this is my friend Rory.” He gestured to the box, where another man, large-nosed but scrawny, stood half-in, half-out the door.

The Doctor stood on tiptoe to look around Sherlock. With an exclamation of delight, he rushed past the detective to grasp John’s hand. “You must be Dr. John Watson!”

“Um, yes, I am. I’m sorry, but you are… Doctor who?” John asked, straining to be polite.

“That’s me!” The Doctor whirled back to Sherlock. “It really is such an honor. I’ve read all your cases. You’re brilliant! Of course, I solved a couple of them before you did. Or several… Or all of them, actually, but still!”

“Oh, you read my blog?” John asked.

The Doctor turned slowly to face him. “No…” he said. “Not exactly. But I think maybe I should.”

Sherlock, meanwhile, had returned to his perusal of the blue box. “What is this contraption?” he asked. “I can’t see any of the usual methods used to make something appear out of thin air.”

“That’s because I don’t use any of the usual methods. This is my spaceship, the TARDIS.” Rory jumped out of the way as the Doctor dashed inside. “Come and see it, Sherly!”

“It’s small for a spaceship.” Sherlock ducked inside the box, too distracted to protest the nickname.

The room went suddenly quiet when the box’s door shut behind him. Rory and John looked at each other. “Rory Williams,” said Rory, crossing the room, hand extended.

“John Watson. Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” Rory settled in Sherlock’s chair, fingers fidgeting on its arm.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, John asked, “Spaceship?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. You from Earth, then?”

“I am. The Doctor isn’t.”

“Oh.” John paused. “Is he always like this?”

“Sometimes worse.”

“They should get along well, then.”

Rory laughed. “Or at least keep each other busy.”

 

The Master and Moriarty were playing Risk. The Master was losing, and he did not like it. He scowled at Moriarty. “If I weren’t using you…”

Moriarty grinned. “Your turn, Master.”

The Master glared at the bored. “I much prefer three-dimensional chess.” He reached to turn in a set of cards but paused, sniffing the air. “The Doctor’s here.”

“You just don’t want to finish the game.”

“No, he is here. Come on. Let’s go blow things up.”

“My kind of day."

The Master made sure to knock over the table – and the board – as he stood.

 

John and Rory were comfortably chatting when the Doctor poked his head out of the TARDIS with a shout of, “John!” that made them both jump. He dashed out, followed by Sherlock. “I need to see that blog of yours. Now.”

John opened his laptop, found the webpage, and handed it over. “Is something wrong?”

The Doctor was busy reading and didn’t respond. When he had flipped through all the entries, he said, “Ugh. John, you don’t have anything of importance on here,” and slammed the computer shut.

“I’ve tried to tell him that,” said Sherlock.

John sighed and snatched his computer back.

“He did mention Moriarty; he’s here, too?”

“He’s around.” A slight smile twitched Sherlock’s mouth. “Causing trouble.”

The Doctor paced for a moment, and then froze. He tilted his head back and took a long breath. “He’s not the only one around,” he said softly. And then, shouting, “He’s here, Rory! I can smell him!”

“Who?”

“Oh, I’m thick. I should have noticed the minute I stepped out of the TARDIS. I was too distracted meeting Sherlock Holmes.”

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” asked Rory, feigning patience.

“They’re in the wrong century! Both of them! No, all three. And the Master’s here as well.”

“Wrong century!” exclaimed John. “That’s ridiculous. We’re here, aren’t we?”

“Yes! That’s the problem!”

“Explain, Doctor,” Sherlock demanded.

The Doctor brushed him off. “It’s complicated.”

Sherlock grabbed his arm. “I will understand.”

The Doctor stared at him for a long moment before exclaiming, “Yes! You will!” He pointed at Sherlock. “Rory! I’ve found someone who understands me!” He whirled away for a moment, too excited to contain himself, and then turned to face Sherlock and launched into a rapid explanation.

“You two are supposed to be literature. I mean, you’re real, obviously, you’re standing right in front of me.” He gestured at the detective and his friend. “But you lived almost two hundred years ago. Your memoirs, John, are found by a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who tweaks them a bit to make them more modern, for his time, and publishes them. But somehow, you two and Moriarty have been zapped out of your own time and plopped into this one. There’s a powerful perception filter around you so no one notices the contradiction, which must be what drew the TARDIS here. It’s so good that even you don’t realize what has happened. You think this is where you belong. But it’s not; I can feel it; time’s out of whack.”

“The man you mentioned, the Master. You think he did this.”

“Yes! Exactly. He’s my enemy. Arch enemy, you could say.”

“I liked it better when people didn’t have arch enemies,” John muttered.

Sherlock’s smile flickered again, but he kept his focus on the Doctor. “Then we’re a trap for you.”

“Most likely.”

Sherlock scowled. “He’s using us. But why us? Why not someone not so well known? Ah! Moriarty.”

“Yes! Moriarty!”

“What about Moriarty?” John asked.

“He’s here, too,” said Sherlock.

“Well, yes. I noticed.”

Sherlock took over the explanation. “This perception filter, it would have to be created for every person pulled out of their own time. It makes no sense to do it for unnecessary people, so why bring Moriarty?” Sherlock looked at the Doctor. “They’re working together.”

“The question is,” said the Doctor, “what sort of trap is it? What am I supposed to do? And so, what should I not do? Or _is_ that the question? Should I just stop asking questions and leave and let things sort themselves out?”

“That gets my vote,” said John.

“He never does that,” Rory told him.

“Of course not.” Sherlock and the Doctor rambled on, not paying the least attention to their friends. “Want to have a flatmate swap? Those two can stick together, and we can go somewhere more peaceful.”

“Tempting, but my wife would probably kill me.” Rory paused and reconsidered. “Doesn’t mean it couldn’t work.” John gave him a questioning look. “Long story.”

“Longer than being two hundred years old and not knowing it?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But that is still quite a story.”

“I don’t think I like it. I’m suddenly realizing how attached I am to the 21st century.”

“It could be worse. You could be a Roman.”

John blinked at him then decided, “I don’t think I want to know how you know that.”

Three harsh knocks on the door brought all conversation to a halt. “That’s not Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock.

“Not a client,” said John.

“You’ll have to move the TARDIS, Doctor,” Sherlock told him.

“Oh!” The Doctor sprang into action. As the TARDIS rematerialized in the opposite corner, Sherlock opened the door, interrupting another series of knocks. Two grinning faces appeared: the Master and Moriarty.

“Hello!” they chorused brightly.

The Master looked around Sherlock and found the Doctor, who was leaning against the TARDIS doors. “Hello, Doctor! New face, I see. That’s quite the chin. I like the bowtie.”

The Doctor self-consciously straightened his bowtie.

“And Rory!” The Master worked his way through the room to slap Rory’s shoulder. “I don’t think we’ve met yet, though I’ve heard of you. And isn’t this incredible!” He turned back to the Doctor. “Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and James Moriarty!”

“It would be,” said the Doctor, “if they were where they belonged.”

“But isn’t this much more interesting? The 21st century with all its technology – it’s so much more deserving of their brilliance.”

The Doctor laughed. “Save that argument for ten thousand years later.”

An explosion rocked the room. They were all thrown off their feet, onto furniture and the floor.

The Doctor fared the best, having the TARDIS to hang on to. “Get in the TARDIS! Quick!” he shouted over the rising roar of flames taking over the room.

Moriarty, unnoticed, had already done just that. Sherlock scrambled inside as Rory hauled John to his feet. The Doctor let them pass, and then shoved the Master back as he tried to gain entrance. They glared at each other through the smoke and flames. The Doctor slammed the door.

He stumbled into the room and fell against the console, frantically setting the controls and sending them flying.

“What happened?” Rory asked. “What was the explosion?”

“The perception filter,” the Doctor said. “The Master did his work too well. He had so much power pouring into it that when all three of you were in the same room thinking about it, it exploded.”

A chuckle sounded from near the door. Four heads swirled in that direction and all spotted Moriarty. “Did you really think we hadn’t thought of that?” he asked.

“Well,” said the Doctor, “yes. I had. Before you appeared and said that.”

Sherlock covered the distance to the door in a few steps and grabbed Moriarty by his coat lapels. “What are you doing here?”

Moriarty spread his hands. “I wanted to tag along.”

The noise that had first irritated John once again filled the air. The Doctor grabbed the scanner. “We’re here.”

“Where?” John asked.

“221b Baker Street, 1831. Your home.”

“It… travels in time, too?”

“Didn’t I mention that?”

“Nope. You also didn’t mention that the inside is bigger than the outside.”

“Well, you can see that for yourself.”

“This… is impossible. Isn’t it? Sherlock?”

“It’s improbable, John. That doesn’t make it impossible.”

“Exactly!” The Doctor beamed. “Now, to get this straightened out before the universe collapses.”

“Before _what_?” Rory demanded.

The Doctor clutched the console as the TARDIS lurched, launching itself into flight. He grabbed the scanner again. “No, no, noooo!” he shouted.

“Where are we going?”

“The falls of Reichenbach. The TARDIS is controlling itself. I can’t stop it.”

“Reichenbach? But isn’t that…”

“Yes. It’s where Sherlock Holmes dies.”

 

As the TARDIS settled again, Sherlock was glaring at the Doctor while hanging on to Moriarty. “Explain, Doctor. Why is the universe going to collapse?”

“It’s the paradox. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the most famous detective in history. On top of the books, there have been movies and TV shows and radio shows inspired by you. Everyone knows your name. Once the perception filter snapped, everyone in the 21st century could suddenly see that something was wrong. It’s too big a paradox. Even the TARDIS can’t handle it. That’s why she’s brought us here. It’s how the books end: Sherlock Holmes goes over the Reichenbach falls in a struggle with his arch nemesis, James Moriarty. The only way to control the paradox is to ensure that happens at the right time in the right place.”

“So either we jump over the waterfall, or the universe collapses and we all die.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then open the door.”

The Doctor did so with obvious reluctance. Sherlock hauled a struggling Moriarty outside, and the rest followed. He stepped toward the edge of the waterfall.

“Sherlock, you can’t,” said John.

Sherlock looked back at him. “I have to.”

In that moment, Moriarty twisted away from Sherlock’s grasp. He sent a swift punch into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock reeled back, stopping just before he tumbled off the edge, and Moriarty dashed away.

In front of Moriarty, the world twisted out of shape for a moment, and the Master appeared, bent over and panting. He held up his arm, displaying a wristwatch-like device. “Vortex manipulator. Not quite a TARDIS, but it works.” Then he straightened, pulled out a pistol, and shot the Doctor three times. Right heart. Left heart. Head. The Doctor collapsed, dead, with no chance to regenerate. Rory cried out and stepped forward and was rewarded with a bullet in his own chest.

The Master tucked the gun away. “There we are. A bit crude, but effective.” He held out his wrist, and Moriarty grabbed the device. “Now, we’ll be off, just to make sure there are no heroics to save the day.”

Moriarty agreed. “In a few minutes, the universe will be kaput! Unfortunate that we’ll go, too, but at least this way we can be sure of our victory.”

Before the Master could press the button, another shot rang out. This one came from John’s gun, and the Master fell, not dead, but out of commission.

Sherlock and John took off after Moriarty, and together they caught him. John rendered him unconscious with the butt of his pistol.

Detective and doctor looked at each other. “I have to jump, John.”

“I know.”

“There’s no point in everyone else dying.”

“I know.”

They hauled Moriarty’s limp body to the edge of the cliff. Sherlock looked back. “Goodbye, John.”

John dropped to his knees and watched the dark specks of his best friend and his worst enemy disappear.

 

After a few minutes, he sensed someone behind him and looked up. The Doctor stood there.

“You’re alive,” John said dully.

The Doctor nodded. “The universe has reset itself. The last hour didn’t exactly happen.”

John stood, noting that Rory was also alive again, and the Master’s wounded body had disappeared. He looked back at the foaming water. “I can remember living here now.”

“You were in the heart of it. You’ll always remember both your real life and the one the Master created.”

John turned. “I want to see him.”

“I don’t think…”

“Take me down there!” he shouted.

 

They found Sherlock’s body a few miles down the river. It was hardly recognizable.

But John found a pulse.

“You can help him,” said John, clinging to his friend’s faintly beating wrist.

The Doctor shook his head.

“Why not? The universe has already recovered, hasn’t it? Take us back. In a good hospital, they might be able to save him.”

The Doctor didn’t move.

“Please,” John begged. “You can’t leave me in 1831 without him. You can’t.”

The Doctor looked from John to Sherlock’s battered body and back again. “Oh, all right. But only if you promise to make up some other explanation of his survival for your memoirs.”

 

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital did save Sherlock, barely. As soon as he was well enough to insist on leaving, the Doctor and Rory escorted them back to a quiet alley in 1831.

“No more texting,” Sherlock said mournfully as they walked away from the TARDIS.

“And no more telly.”

“Ugh. That’s almost worth the trade.”

“I suppose we’ll have to get different clothes.”

Sherlock frowned, adjusted his trench coat, and turned up his collar.

John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll have to grow a mustache!”

Their laughter intertwined as they disappeared into the foggy London night.

“Will they be all right, Doctor?” Rory asked, staring after them.

“Of course. Sherlock will live to a good old age and retire to be a beekeeper. They’ll be the best of friends until the end of their days. But you know all this; you’ve read the books.”

“Oh. You’re right. I have.” Rory shook his head. “Weird. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that. What about the universe? Will it be all right?”

“I expect so. I’m slowly learning, Rory, that the universe is much more resilient than I give her credit for.”

“And the Master? And Moriarty?”

“Moriarty’s dead – good riddance. As for the Master, who knows? I imagine we’ll find out one day.”

The two of them ducked into the TARDIS, and a moment later, it noisily disappeared, leaving the deserted alley peaceful once again.


End file.
